


Quiet My Heart

by Juno_Darling



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Angsty Draco, Depression, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Porn With Plot, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Seer Luna Lovegood, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Trauma, True Love, draco in love, druna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26431984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juno_Darling/pseuds/Juno_Darling
Summary: A Draco/Luna Love StoryThe atonement of a Slytherin for the redemption of a Ravenclaw.This story takes place during the Second Wizarding War and post-war.>>>This story is a work in progress, which is why it is choppy and a bit of a clusterfuck.
Relationships: Luna Lovegood/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> "The greatest bliss must suffer long delays.  
> The love that comes most slowly, longest stays.  
> This moral’s hard to hear, because it’s true.  
> To even utter it is hard to do.”  
> ~ Charles Perrault, Sleeping Beauty

It was the high-pitched screaming of a familiar voice that tore Draco from a dead sleep. And it was the shouting—  
_Hold on to the little witch, will you?  
We have her, master!  
Take her to the dungeon!_  
—that pulled him from his bedroom in a panic, with a heavy sense of foreboding he could not yet name.

He raced through the dark corridors and rushed down the twisting staircases that made up the skeleton of Malfoy Manor. The dungeon had never felt so far away. The shouting and the screaming continued, terror echoing through his home like a biting cold wind —and Draco was sure some of the screams carried his name. The desperation within him overlapped the piercing horror of what or whom he would discover. Then, like a punch to the gut, he knew. He just knew. And his heart cried, _No, please. Not her._

Luna Lovegood.

There could be no mistaking that long blonde fairytale hair. Greyback and Selwyn had her by the arms, dragging her to the dungeon. Draco hid and watched from around a corner as the brutes jerked her down the stone steps into the hellish underground. The poor girl was sobbing and he was sure he saw blood in her hair.

Thick dread poured over him, making his heart heavy and his throat close-up. He clutched his chest and leaned against the wall before the dizziness set in. Two contending thoughts took hostage of his mind: he had to do something _and_ there was nothing he could do.

A crushing wave of nausea passed over him and he could no longer stand. He slid down the wall to the floor and hugged his knees to his chest. Everything was tilted, spinning, moving too fast. He pressed his eyes shut, willing the madness to settle.

 _Breathe,_ he commanded himself. But he couldn't, not properly. _My heart is going to stop. I can't breathe,_ he panicked, gasping for air that seemed too thick.

Reality began to away. Lack of oxygen caused the world to dissipate around him, cloaking him in darkness. The high-pitched, gut-wrenching screams coming from below continued, bleeding from reality into his waning consciousness. The terror of it tortured him even into oblivion.

>>><<<

_"Oh, hello, Draco Malfoy."_

_An airy delicate voice stirred Draco from his melancholy reflections, pulling his gaze from the raindrops trailing across the window as the dreary grey world rushed past The Hogwarts Express in a blur. He lifted his head from the cold glass and looked upon a girl standing in the doorway of his train compartment._ —HIS _compartment, to be clear. The compartment he'd procured by scaring away three gullible first years. The compartment located in the section of the train his mates were unlikely to visit. The compartment he'd hoped would offer him total isolation._

_Now stood: a petite girl with long blonde hair, wide blue eyes, and an all too familiar expression of curiosity and wonder._

Lovegood, _—the fourth year Ravenclaw from his Divination class. She was the best student in the class and had an obvious talent for the course, often impressing Draco with her skills. But her excellence was sorely overshadowed, because she was just so bafflingly odd —her behaviour, her manner of speaking, her bizarre ideas, her clothes, her ridiculously long hair._

Why? _was_ Loony _Lovegood standing in the entrance of_ his _compartment, his well-earned refuge of solitude._ Why? _he lamented, feeling justifiably sorry for himself._ Just go away, _he thought desperately, releasing a heavy sigh he hoped would make his displeasure clear. But she just stared at him with her big eyes, her mouth slightly agape as she seemed to be putting a thought together._

She's so daft.

_He had no energy for this. He couldn't even manage a glare. And he certainly didn't have the wits to shoo her away with one of his trademark snarky comments. So he just blinked at her with heavy sleepy eyes and a dead expression for an unknown amount of time, impatiently waiting for her to speak or do something so he could then ignore her and go back to the raindrops on the window._

_But, nothing._

She's pretty, _Draco unwittingly noted, feeling no emotion at the thought, almost bored by the observation. And while she had initially appeared in his doorway wearing a soft pleasant smile and eager kind eyes, she now carried a frown —not one of affront or personal displeasure, but rather pity and obvious concern._

_"I'm sorry, Draco," she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper._

_Draco had no inclination to respond as general courtesy called for. He just blinked at her and waited ... for_ something.

_"I can see I've interrupted your privacy—" she stopped, her pretty face contorting with uncertainty as to how she should continue._

It must hurt for her to think so hard, _Draco thought derisively._

_"It's just," she paused again, words caught._

_Draco sighed, beyond exasperated now._ It's a good thing you're pretty, _he scowled._

_"It's just, I was looking for... Well, I was looking for something. Something particular, you see —it's hard to explain. I felt certain it was here, but..." She met Draco's eyes, frowning in deep consideration as though questioning herself._

_"I'm sorry, Draco."_

_Draco rolled his eyes,_ —Lovegood always using first names with no sense of propriety.

Of course you're sorry! _he silently agreed._ Now, go away.

_"You're clearly seeking solitude."_

Genius.

 _He remained silent, mostly because he hadn't the gumption to speak, but also because he couldn't think of anything to say that wouldn't make her cry. She seemed to take him at his game —gazing back in equal silence with a furrowed thoughtful brow._ She looks as tired as I feel, _he noted._

Hmm... _she murmured softly to herself, tilting her head thoughtfully, never taking her eyes away from Draco. It felt like he was being judged, though he couldn't imagine Lovegood ever looking down upon anyone_ —not even him. _Then there was a sudden spark in her gaze as though she'd had a realization. However, as evidenced by her continued silence, Draco realized she had no intention of sharing her epiphany. This made him feel pouty —and resentful, for considering the inconsequential Luna Lovegood more than he had ever cared too._

No, _he concluded firmly. He was not going put up with this —whatever_ this _was about to be. He had no patience, nor the energy to engage with the runner-up for 'school weirdo'._

_"Lovegood," he began firmly, but then he stopped short._

_Of course his eyes were captured by her eyes, and the rant he had been ready to dole out swiftly left his mind. One cannot glance at the girl without being taken in by the enormous blue pools. Lovegood carried her soul in her eyes —honest, pure, and wholly altruistic. Draco wondered how she did that; just bare herself to the world without timidity or even an ounce of shame. It was intoxicating. It was a secret weapon she didn't even know she had._

_She blinked at Draco, furrowing her brow and tilting her head to the side as though it helped her think. Her eyes searched Draco and then his surroundings with a somber curiosity before landing back upon Draco. She frowned._

_"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— It's just, I needed to..." her words drifted off and she sighed heavily. "Oh, well, I can see that you— I just thought—" she closed her eyes, shaking her head as though collecting her thoughts or resetting her reality. She took a long purposeful breath before opening her eyes again to meet his. "I'm really terribly sorry, Draco. I'll go now—"_

_But he couldn't bear it any longer and stopped her. "Lovegood, Lovegood, it's fine. Just,_ —just shut-it." _It was a harsh command, but his tone was even and calm. It wasn't a command at all, really. It was a plea._

Please, stay, _he thought,_ —and where had _that_ come from?

_Lovegood instantly went still and silent. Her contrite expression melted back into concern, —a deep concern, filling her eyes with distress. It hurt to look at and Draco felt pathetic._

Go away, _he thought sadly, changing his mind. And then he just didn't care. The dopey blonde was the least of his worries._

_Lovegood remained frozen in place as he sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. He wanted to disappear; just fade into nonexistence as though he were never born._

_His father was going to kill him upon his return. He'd failed Transfiguration, and not for lack of trying. But all his tireless effort, his struggles to understand and master the subject, would not matter. His father was going to kill him anyway, just a little bit, little by little, kill him on the inside._

_It wouldn't be the initial searing pain of his father's relentless cane upon his back, nor would it be the ache of lingering wounds and bruises that hurt the most. It would be the enduring cruel comments and the ceaseless looks of disgust —disappointment that would never be forgiven nor forgotten; it would be the everlasting scar of failure, pathetic and inexcusable, expanded upon his soul that would hurt the most._

_"Draco?" Lovegood whispered softly. "Can I sit with you?"_

No, _Draco thought, while he felt himself nodding,_ Yes.

_Draco heard the compartment door slide shut. Hunched over, with his face still in his hands, he expected Lovegood to take the seat across from him. Instead, he felt her sit down next to him, closer than any simple acquaintance should —as though they were friends. But he felt no urge to move away and found her nearness unexpectedly comforting._

_He watched from the corner of his eye as she smoothed her hands down her green dress before folding them neatly and resting them in her lap. She wore a notable black ring —a beautiful onyx Spider curled around her left pointer finger, and he found himself longing to touch and examine it. Her nails were painted neon pink and clashed with the color of her dress, and a chaos of mismatched bracelets circled both her wrists._

_She carried not an ounce of tension nor discomfort. This urged Draco to sit up and look at the third year Ravenclaw. She offered him the smallest of smiles that somehow held all the sweetness in the world. It made Draco feel warm all over. It made him feel safe. He sighed, feeling almost relieved, and returned his gaze to the window, deciding he didn't mind his newly acquired company._

_The odd pair sat in complete silence for unknown minutes before Lovegood said, in a very quiet, dreamy voice, "I quite like the rain." And Draco felt himself nod in agreement._

_He could sense her gaze matching his own, lost to the passing world and the diverting patterns of raindrops upon the window. After a short while, she sighed, her own sigh of contentment, her own sigh of relief. Draco considered perhaps_ she _was hiding too, seeking her_ own _quiet and solitude. Then he felt her head lay upon his shoulder as she released another great sigh of reprieve._

_Draco tensed from the uninvited familiarity, but the discomfort soon waned and he relented to the power of her soothing presence. Her hair smelled like lilacs and the divine scent embedded in his memory as they breathed in tandem. The silent pair remained undiscovered for the remainder of the trip. Thoughts of his father did not abate, but his fear allayed into a state somewhere near peace and acceptance._

_Upon their arrival at King's Cross, they parted with few words —all very polite and somewhat dismissive, as though they hadn't just spent hours side-by-side in a wordless silence that was very nearly too intimate. The only sounds had been the faint din of students on the train, the steady raindrops upon the window, and the intoxicating lull of the train tracks beneath them. The occasional heavy sigh was released, which seemed to prompt the other to sigh in kind, wherein a mutual suffering seemed to temporarily wane. As well, Draco was sure at some point Lovegood had even drifted to sleep upon his shoulder. Now their parting felt like a woeful return to passive indifference._

_He was surprised by his sorrow, momentarily forgetting the painful fate awaiting him. He had even felt a silly inclination to suggest they exchange owls over the summer, lost in her wide blue eyes as they fumbled their way through the awkward goodbye. But he said no such thing, a cluster of regret beginning to form in his chest._

_As he watched the odd girl with the fairytale hair exit his compartment —exit_ their _compartment, he concluded, though he would never ever tell a soul, he liked Luna Lovegood. And, consequently, the summer that followed often found Draco hidden in the gardens of Malfoy Manor amongst the lilacs, losing himself in books or gazing at the sky in meandering daydreams. There was a peace he felt nowhere else —hidden amongst the lilacs, where he almost forgot his father hated him and intrusive thoughts of Luna Lovegood were always welcomed._

<<<<<<

“Mother!” Draco stormed into Narcissa's sitting room, carrying his rage like a grenade with the pin pulled. “They have Lovegood down there,” he pointed in the direction of the dungeon. _“Lovegood,_ mother! _Luna_ Lovegood!” he clarified —not the absurd neurotic father, but the daughter —innocent, harmless; just a vulnerable young girl being abused and imprisoned in his home.

Narcissa, who had been in the middle of enjoying tea and a book, sat on her sofa with perfect posture and a calm expression, unaffected by the rude interruption. Her ability to forever maintain her composure, no matter the circumstance, was exceptional. She set her book aside, placed her china on the coffee table, and looked at her son expectantly, folding her hands neatly in her lap, prepared for his histrionics.

“Moth _-ER!”_ Draco demanded, resisting the urge to stomp his foot like a five-year-old. He had nothing to follow. It was just a cry of ‘Mother’ translated as _fix this, now._

Narcissa furrowed her elegant brow, considering her son’s agitated state —one of the many dark moods Draco flowed between in a chaotic manner. There were numerous questions she could ask, questions too familiar for both of them and too infuriating for Draco. When he was distressed, his mother usually looked for some clue that would indicate her son was nothing more than tired or hungry or sick _—as though he were an infant._

 _—Are you sleeping well?_  
_—Are you eating well?_  
_—Do you feel ill?_

 _Mother, I'm fine,_ he always assured her, sometimes with a hateful, _leave me alone,_ tacked on for good measure.

No amount of sleep or food or medicine was going to help Draco. His troubles were symptoms of a bigger problem. He suspected his mother knew, deep down, what was troubling him. But talking about that would mean facing her own guilt. Therefore, the core reasons for his disturbed emotions were never addressed, as though his feelings were exaggerated —minor problems with minor solutions.

 _"She's so innocent,"_ Draco whispered to himself, in a hushed tragic way. He envisioned Luna's wide blue eyes, forever lost in some beautiful world all her own.

Narcissa frowned at her son like he was a puzzle she'd lost all hope of solving. Her defeated expression pierced Draco's heart and he felt his anger slipping into desperation. _Please help me,_ his soul cried, while his mind whispered, _you're a disappointment ... you're a failure to her._ He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his lips from quivering.

There was a latent instinct to throw a fit —whine, shout, scream, cry, —maybe even break a few things. That technique had served him well for seventeen years —when his home had been his own. Now Death Eaters infested his family’s manor like diseased rats, with varying strains of wickedness, leaving varying trails of cruelty in their wake. The Dark Lord had turned Draco’s childhood home into a base for Evil. And it _was_ evil _—all of it._ Draco had known that truth in his bones since the moment on the astronomy tower, exposing the loathsome Dark Mark that infected his forearm...

_Don’t you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you ... or he’s going to kill me._

Percolating with emotions the depths of which Draco could never hope to comprehend, he strode across the room to his mother in earnest and dropped onto the sofa next to her. He was a little boy again, seeking comfort, an assurance that everything would be okay. He met her eyes and begged her to make it okay. _Mummy, please! _child-Draco cried in his mind. Tears pricked at his eyes, but he cursed them back, determined to convey his obstinacy on the matter.__

____

____

His mother's serenity captured him. “Draco,” she said quietly, cupping his cheek tenderly, “this will all be over soon, my darling.” And Draco's heart dropped at the meaningless platitude. What does _'over'_ even mean? He squeezed his eyes shut, briefly hoping this was just another one of his fucked-up nightmares. Then his mother added, “I promise," —one phrase, two words, that meant literally _nothing_ to Draco when coming from his parents.

The stubborn tears escaped from the corners of his shut eyes. He let the tears fall, but could not open his eyes. Giving sight to his surroundings would make it all real. He felt his mother pull him into an embrace. It felt like the physical manifestation of a lie. “It will be alright, dearest,” she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair.

None of this would _ever_ be alright.

He allowed his mother to hold him, momentarily setting aside the desire to scream at her. It was deliriously familiar, every sensation of his mother’s comfort memorized. His head upon her shoulder, the smell of her hair, her hand moving in soothing circles on his back.

“What are they going to do to her?” he wept. "What do they want from her?"

There was a long pause. The kind of pause that conjures lies. He felt her sigh.

“Nothing, my love," she replied at last, her voice flat with dishonesty. "They're simply —they're just _holding_ her."

Draco scoffed and shoved away from his mother. _Nothing._ Holding Luna prisoner in a cold dungeon, leaving her victim to demonic Death Eaters was hardly _nothing._ Draco wanted to scream, indignant anger flooding his being. “Mother,” he begged, on the verge of exploding. And again, frustrated beyond belief, he had nothing to add. No case to make for the deliverance of Luna Lovegood. Only a final defeated sob of, _“Please.”_

Narcissa studied her son with a serious expression. There was no more emotion in her eyes. Only practicality. Draco could see her thinking, searching for the right words, _—anything_ that would allay her son's distress.

 _A lie,_ he thought. _She’s going to lie again._

Draco prodigiously hated his mother in this moment. The reality they lived in, painted in falsehoods and stinking of evil —it was absurd to pretend her seventeen-year-old son didn't already understand _all of it._ He'd seen the depths of their maliciousness. He _knew_ what they were all capable of ... what they were all _guilty_ of. So why continue with the lies?

“Darling," Narcissa began, sighing as though relinquishing all hesitation, "the Lovegood girl is being held because of her father's articles in The Quibbler. He's a serious threat to the cause and The Dark Lord insists he publically denounce Harry Potter and cease further publication of his propaganda."

 _So that’s that,_ Draco thought, hopelessness beginning to take root.

There should’ve been more explanation than that. More to this grand evil plot that justified imprisoning and violating an innocent girl. _Is this what Luna's life is reduced to? A pawn in a war not her own?_ It was so tragically wrong.

"Xenophilius is being a fool,” Draco’s mother continued, even though Draco had stopped listening. "The longer it takes for him to cooperate, the more The Dark Lord intends to make the poor girl suffer."

 _No, no, no, no, no, no..._ Draco’s mind tried to leave his body.

"There's nothing ... _nothing_ we can do for the girl.”

The truth pummeled a black hole into Draco's chest. The empty space left behind absorbed all his hope and smothered it.

 _Breathe now,_ his brain shouted from a distance. _You're supposed to breathe to keep living._

Narcissa's expression melted into pity. Her eyes held an undying love for him, _—her son, her only child._ But her soul was no longer her own, and it made her love sour, offering Draco no security, no comfort.

“He’s commanded it," she continued. "It’s out of our control, I’m afraid.” She reached to brush a lock of his platinum hair back in place. He flinched, grimacing and swatting her hand away.

Draco had once viewed his mother as extraordinarily fearless. Strong of heart and mind. But this woman next to him, trying to comfort him, was _not_ his mother. She was a witch beholden to The Dark Lord. She had sold her soul for... _for what exactly?_ Now her touch, her mere presence, felt like poison. Draco stood abruptly, glaring down at her. He pointed, accusatory and venomous. _“This_ is fucked—”

“Draco!” she chastised his language, which Draco found utterly absurd considering all the atrocities he’d witnessed as of late.

He laughed, a burst of comical irony, throwing his head back as he cursed the cruel universe above and mocked his own place in it. He knew he was crying, could feel the tears pouring down his face. But it was like it was happening to someone else. Like his grief was manifesting outside of his consciousness, because all he could feel at that moment was burning fury.

He pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, forcing the tears to cease and grasping for sanity. _This can’t be real._ He swallowed, thick and heavy, a tightness capturing his chest as he realized what needed to happen.

“This is wrong,” he said to the ceiling, his voice eerily calm. Then he met his mother’s face, seizing her eyes with livid intensity. “This is _wrong_ and you _know_ it,” he glared with gritted teeth.

The raucous slam of the door behind him was supremely gratifying.

>>><<<

Draco stormed through the halls, his broken mind racing for solutions, his wounded heart fearing there were none. He walked with purpose, mumbling to himself as he conversed with the voices inside his head. Luna didn't belong in this world _—his world_ —full of darkness, betrayal, and villainy. Her presence in Malfoy Manor alone was enough to strike him with despair. She was defiled now, like a newly blossoming flower stomped upon by a cruel indifferent boot. She could survive this, but she'd be dead on the inside forever.

 _Welcome to my world, Luna,_ he thought mournfully.

Luna was perhaps the purest soul Draco had ever met. Though they existed in contrasting universes, they had managed to share many brief interactions over the years. Like everyone else, Draco found her odd, however she was unwaveringly kind to him —which was perhaps _most_ odd. No one was kind to Draco _all the time_ —not genuinely anyway. His peers feared him. They used him. They even worshiped him. They didn’t _like_ him.

In contrast, Luna was amiable and sincere with Draco as though it were impossible for her to be any other way with him. She truly seemed to like him for him —no judgments, no mocking, no ulterior motives. Only curiosity and fascination and an eagerness to share a smile with him. Luna held an honesty in her wide blue eyes that was radiant and when she listened to Draco, she listened with her entire being. Her cheerfulness never felt annoying. Her optimism never seemed naive. And her friendship was never conditional. The sweetness and benevolence within Luna Lovegood inclined Draco to see her as an angel. If they existed, he decided, she was one.

With each happenstance encounter between the ethereal Ravenclaw and the misanthropic Slytherin, a longing gradually settled upon Draco. He found that he wanted to know more about the angel that seemed to truly like him. And he realized he wanted it to be okay to like her back.

But his heart didn't need his permission. He cared about Luna. Draco _had_ to rescue her from the dungeon. The alternative was unthinkable. If he failed, he could no longer live with himself. He was barely hanging on as it was. The familiar razorblade in his bedside drawer would surely find his wrist again, and it would be the last time.

He stopped by the entrance to the dungeon, out of breath and scared shitless. He had no plan yet, not a clue as to how he should move forward. But he was certain he could not continue breathing if he did nothing.

An earth-shattering scream escaped the depths below and tore Draco’s heart apart. He thought he might pass out. His mind begged him to check out of reality. He didn't want to picture what might be happening to Luna. The images assaulted him nonetheless.

“Luna,” he choked with sorrow, her name spoken aloud instantly claiming a place in his heart. He welcomed the tears now, silently spilling from his eyes. It was all so utterly hopeless, so why shouldn't he cry?

Another loud shriek stole Draco's breath and he clutched his chest, falling back against the wall. He allowed himself to slide to the floor, folding his arms around his knees to bury his face and hug himself. His mind begged him to cover his ears, but he felt doing so would abandon Luna, as though hearing her torture, bearing witness to it, could absorb some of her suffering. Luna's high-pitched cries were long and edged with sharp agony. Her angelic voice shrieked and blubbered nonsense. Words weren't possible, but it was a language still. She was _begging_ for someone to save her. Maybe she was screaming for Draco.

Draco sobbed violently, cursing at the inner voice that told him it was hopeless, the voice that mocked him for his pathetic cowardice. He still had that razor. A quick end to all of this. He wouldn't hear Luna's wretched cries anymore, he wouldn't witness her forthcoming death _—not if he died first._ He deserved to die, for so many reasons. Luna didn't deserve this. Luna deserved a beautiful happy life. Luna deserved love. Luna needed to be returned to her heaven.

She was worth more than him _—an obvious epiphany if ever there was one._ If Draco existed only to reside in evil and gutlessly side with demons, then why should he care about risking his life to save an angel like Luna? In fact, what could be more noble? It wouldn't absolve his sins, but it would soothe his marred heart on his pathway to hell.

"Yes," Draco whispered. "Yes, I'll die. I'll die for her." And then a desperately earnest vow respired from his lips, igniting his soul with a burning purpose and solidifying his fate.

“I’ll save you, Luna Lovegood.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco finds his valiant spirit and embarks on a bold mission to save Luna Lovegood from the dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world."  
> ~ Charles Dickens

Draco was walloped awake by a solid blow to his gut —the boot of one Antonin Dolohov. He grunted, curling in on himself, trying not to vomit the acidic contents of his long-empty stomach. His father would have Dolohov’s head had he seen the assault.

“What the hell are you doing here, you little bastard?”

Draco had fallen asleep in the hallway outside the dungeon, only able to drift off after Luna’s cries had abated. He could feel snot and tears dried upon his face, and the rest of him was a disheveled wreck —rumpled clothes, greasy hair. Draco made it a point to always look his best around others. It was, in fact, a calculated obsession —less about vanity and more about appearing fully in control.

Humiliation coated him as he stood on wobbly legs, using the wall for support. He was painfully aware of Dolohov’s snake eyes on him as he labored to gain his composure. Dolohov was one of the worst Death Eaters, (crimes too unspeakable to even consider), and Draco could not afford to display an ounce of weakness with him. Still, something within him begged him to scream for his father.

 _This_ was one of the monsters that was to guard and keep Luna. Antonin Dolohov in the day and Thorfinn Rowle in the night. Draco had overheard the villains discussing the night before —how they would handle the ‘feisty Ravenclaw’. 

With a beastly smile, Dolohov faced Draco squarely, his arms folded across his chest, wand visible in his hand. Draco’s hand twitched for his own wand and every nerve ending in his body ignited, ready for action.

“You like that little slag down there, don’t you?” Dolohov grinned, a perverse gleam in his eyes.

Draco’s eyes narrowed and a vicious growl rumbled loose. “Don’t call her that, you vermin piece of shit!” He spat at the Death Eater, surprised by his impulsive boldness.

Dolohov was not shaken. He smirked derisively as he wiped his face, then took a solid step forward, locking onto Draco’s eyes with malicious delight. Draco recoiled, backing against the wall and instantly loathing himself for the cowardice. But Dolohov’s black eyes lacked a soul. It was eerie and madness-inducing, and Draco felt pulled in by the infinite darkness. He wanted to run.

The Death Eater chuckled to himself, inches from Draco’s face. He grinned, wide and wicked ... _excited,_ like a schoolboy with a torrid secret to share. “You know,” he began, “she was a right good fuck, your girl was—”

Draco had no thought of the wand in his pocket. There was no thought of Dolohov’s wand. There was only reaction: a powerful vicious shove and the swift brutal blow of his fist slamming into the Death Eater’s face. The assault knocked Dolohov off his feet and sent his wand sailing across the floor. He watched with panic as his wand slid from reach, then he looked up at Draco, whose wand was drawn and aimed. Draco’s eyes were not dead like Dolohov’s, but alive with emotion. He was full of rage, the very fires of hell engulfing his entire being, threatening to overflow and set the whole cruel world aflame.

Blood spilled down Dolohov’s face, the scowl of a bitter loser possessing his visage. His dark eyes were cautiously fixed upon Draco. Draco’s heart was racing and he was heaving as though he’d just run a marathon. His hand would suffer later, but for the moment he felt no pain. He felt no fear. He was well charged with years worth of vindication. He glared down at Dolohov, guaranteeing him savage punishment.

Dolohov cowered at Draco’s mad possessed eyes, remaining still as though trying not to startle a bear. Draco had never felt more tall, powerful, _—brave._ Then, in a most foolish manner, Dolohov reached out his hand to summon his wand and Draco instantly shouted, _Petrificus!_

The Death Eater went totally paralyzed. His frozen expression of shock nearly made Draco laugh. He captured his soulless eyes. He was at Draco’s mercy —of which Draco had none. He could do whatever he wished to Dolohov ... _Crucio,_ even.

But there was another spell, more suited for the situation. It would allow Draco to command the Death Eater with mere words, and the brute would be enslaved to commit and obey. _Animperio._

Draco feared the curse. It was rarely used because it was rumored to scar one’s soul in exchange for its use. After much research, Draco could find no reasonable evidence for the soul fable, but the spell frightened him all the same. All great powers seemed to accompany great sacrifice.

Learning Occlumency —a skill his horrid Aunt had insisted he master— had had unintended effects upon Draco, whose mind proved exceptionally dissociative. He’d mastered Occlumency painfully, _—woefully._ In many ways, learning Occlumency was like slowly losing himself entirely —shoving back his emotions, pushing aside his ambitions, locking up his memories, denying his humanity— like becoming a true Death Eater.

Draco did not like thinking of himself as that. He couldn’t be. He didn’t want to be! Sure, he wanted to be great and powerful. He wanted to be well-known and admired. He wanted to be a superior wizard that would go down in history. He wanted none of this Voldemort ugliness. He hadn’t asked for it. Didn’t invite it. He was thrust into it —born into it, like the rest of his peers, victims of another generation’s crimes and failings. _Curse them all,_ Draco thought bitterly.

After the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, Draco had been confined to his home. He realized, quite quickly, that he missed his friends and he missed school … and he realized Malfoy Manor was no longer his home. His family was no longer a family. And he could not bear to be near another soul. His majestic eagle owl, Bragi, became his dearest friend and confidant. And a razorblade began to relentlessly stalk his skin.

Draco kept to his room, even taking his meals there, despite his mother’s pleas. He slept the days away, awaking in the evenings to his wretched reality with a tidal wave of despair. He passed the dark nights reading by candlelight for unknown hours, sometimes manically speaking aloud to no one as his eyes passed over the pages. He whispered to Bragi. He gazed out the open window and memorized the stars and their constellations. He learned their stories. He talked to the night sky. Cried out to it! And he cried and cried, and sobbed and weeped and whimpered. He called for his mother and cursed her in the same moment. He prayed to a God he knew did not exist. He sought relief in the stinging pierce and breath-stealing slide of sharp metal along his pale skin. He rode the delicious high of brief peace and false elation as rose-red blood streaked silver in the moonlight. He suffered fitful heavy sleeps throughout the day, nightmares chasing him with a vice-grip on his heart. And he paced throughout the night, accepting his nocturnal existence with a comfort that kept him breathing. The night was all that held beauty for him. Draco's room was his world. And he only left it long after midnight, when the manor was still and silent. He had a singular destination.

In the grand overflowing library of Malfoy Manor, Draco discovered the joy of books and their uncanny ability to transport one entirely out of reality. It was an instantly formed addiction. Some of the books he slid off the shelves and cradled against his chest in a rapid-growing pile were fiction, some history, some instructional. Draco absorbed a universe of knowledge and a depth of humanity that expanded and molded his mind. He built towers of books around his bedroom —some sorted meticulously, some deemed unworthy and discarded. He stacked his favorites on the nightstand. There were books stuffed in the crevices of his sofa and chair cushions. There were books littering his bathroom, pages curled with moisture. There were books hidden in his closet like treasure and dotting his floor like war mines. Books were twisted in the sheets of his bed and hiding under his pillow, clung to after nightmares. Books, he discovered, were a safe world he could lose himself in, with a door he could open or close as he wished.

One book, hidden in a corner of his wardrobe, called to him often. It frightened Draco, yet begged to be explored: A Wizard’s Guide to Mind Control. As he kneeled beside Dolohov, studying his ugly evil face, Draco knew he could recite every word in that forbidden book. He knew, without a doubt, he could perform the spells. He could cast _Animperio._

_My soul is already scarred … what more damage can come of it?_

_Luna needs me._

Resolved, Draco leaned in close, an unsolicited smirk playing across his face. He gladly stabbed his wand into Dolohov’s neck, hard enough to leave a brutal bruise.

 _Animperio,_ Draco growled the curse with firm purpose, giving his wand a vicious shove, wishing he could choke the Death Eater out right then and there. There was an overwhelming urge to dole severe violence upon Dolohov … to inflict the same level of suffering upon him as he had upon his Luna. But he needed him.

“Hear me now,” Draco snarled, eyes locked upon the Death Eater’s, “for I have such fury within me, I carry the power of a hundred wizards such as you. And if you dare raise the devil within me, the consequences will fall heavily upon your head.”

Draco paused and pierced the villain’s eyes with his anchored rage, enslaving his mind with only his stare. Then he spoke his commands, each word clear and enunciated, in a stern tone fuming with contempt.

“Antonin Dolohov … You will suffer exponentially for what you've done to Luna Lovegood. And be sure, I will have your life for it in the end.” He jabbed the wand deeper, cutting off Dolohov’s airway. Draco delighted in his choke for breath. “While you guard this dungeon, you will protect her. You will keep her from further harm. You will protect her with your very life. You will _not_ touch her. You will not _speak_ to her. You will not even _look at her._ You will never tell of this and you will think of me with fear and despair for all time. You will do all of this … or I will happily command Wormtail to slowly gnaw your pathetic cock off and I will feed it to Nagini while I make you watch as you bleed-out —and you can bet that the fires of a most _vicious_ hell are awaiting you.”

Dolohov literally pissed himself with fear. And Draco felt no hesitation as he brutally kicked the Death Eater between the legs with every intention of inflicting permanent damage and long-suffering pain.

>>><<<

Thorfinn Rowle was a drunk. The Death Eater had a particular brand of especially potent firewhiskey in a flask that was a permanent fixture of his hand. He was a ‘functioning alcoholic’, in that his firewhiskey gave him enough wicked bravado to carry out the most unspeakable acts —a skill highly valued by The Dark Lord. But Rowle had fucked up. Whether or not the whiskey was to blame for said fuck-up —accidentally killing one of their own during the Battle of the Astronomy Tower— his poison was confiscated nonetheless, and he was demoted to overnight guard of Malfoy Dungeon.

Rowle was banefully vile —haunting dead eyes and a fiendish grin that delighted in the torment of others. He was strong and fast, but not at all bright. That was his weakness —not the alcoholism, _per se._ He was stupid, and he was particularly easy to manipulate when he was going through alcoholic withdrawals.

Draco dared to spy around the corner at the entrance to the dungeon. It was after midnight and he had spent the day hastily planning and preparing for his mission.

Rowle had settled himself against the wall. He folded his arms tight across his chest, a petulant scowl owning his face. He was grumbling to himself, throwing in the occasional hand gesture. His brow was drenched in sweat and his jaw was tight with rage. His legs twitched manically, he viciously chewed on his fingernails, alternated the position of his arms, yanked his hands back through his hair, rubbed his bloodshot eyes, licked and chewed on his dry lips until they bled, and banged his head back against the wall. And then…

He did what Draco knew he would do, what he’d seen the drunk Thorfinn Rowle do too many times to count. He reached into his jacket pocket to grab for his familiar flask. It was a mindless tic of course, because there was no flask. It had been confiscated. But he was an imbecile in a mindless state, stuck between hell and a hellish reality. They’d taken his booze _—remember?_ But then…

With his hand in his pocket, Rowle’s ugly face morphed from agony to disbelief to elation to pure gleeful sociopathic. He froze for what seemed like an eternity, his hand remaining in his pocket as if convincing himself that he hadn’t gone fully mad. Then he pulled the flask from his pocket _—His flask!—_ and gaped at it like he’d pulled it from thin air. He blinked rapidly, searching for the focus of reality. All at once, he unscrewed the cap, desperate and fumbling with shaking fingers, and he tilted the bottle to his lips, gulping the sweet poison like it was the elixir of immortality.

 _Fucking pathetic,_ Draco thought, with a repulsed sneer.

It was almost too easy. Draco had charmed his father’s liquor cabinet open, (which Draco could do blindfolded since the age of eleven). Then he brewed a flawless infallible sleep tonic —bearing full faith in its efficacy because, as Draco would freely boast to anyone, Potions was his slice of genius. He tracked down the confiscated flask and blessed it with the best firewhiskey money could buy —mixed with a sleep tonic that would incapacitate him until the break of dawn. Then he trailed Rowle until he gained an opportunity to slip the precious flask back into his pocket.

Rowle was a lump of useless shit crumbled upon the cold floor in less than a minute. Draco situated a chair in a corner, looked back at Rowle on the floor, then back at the chair. He sighed heavily, turning to face the unpleasant task before him. One arm under each of Rowle’s, Draco managed to drag him to the chair and place him in it. The smell of the Death Eater was an indescribable level of putrid. Draco _hated_ these fuckers.

He took the flask from Rowle’s hand and slipped it into his own pocket —a tool for another time. Then he rummaged Rowle’s pockets until he retrieved what he was looking for.

“Thank you very much,” he whispered bitterly, shaking the dungeon keys in front of the braindead miscreant. He arranged Rowle to appear at the very least alive _—dozing on the job_ was the look Draco was going for. He assured himself, no one would be in this wing of the Manor at night anyway. And because of the sleep tonic, The Death Eater would be out until morning.

When Draco was at last satisfied with Rowle’s dead-alive look, he stepped back and let his mind move on to the next step in his plan. With it, a fresh sense of surreality meeting reality stole his breath. He stopped, frozen in place by the dread of the unknown. His heart beat thunderously loud in his ears. _What would he find in that dungeon?_

>>><<<

Nothing could have prepared Draco for the sight he came upon in the farthest corner of Malfoy Dungeon. Luna was the shape of a ball, a lump of a human curled in upon herself. She wasn’t moving.

 _Did she hear Draco approaching? Was she dying? Perhaps she was already dead?_ Draco’s stomach turned with the horrifying thought.

 _Lummos,_ he whispered, his hand trembling. The sight of the dungeon in the light was arguably more terrifying than it was in the dark. Draco tried to ignore the blood-splattered walls, the scampering revolting rats, the scent of black mold and copper-tinged echoes of suffering.

Draco’s determined mind refused to register the scarring sight of human fingernails stuck in a crevice of the stone wall, sloppily painted with crimson handprints —a soul grasping for saving and finding only more pain. There was an all-encompassing smell of mildew and blood and vomit and decomposition. Draco’s heart cried.

_This is no place for an angel._

Draco slowly approached and kneeled next to Luna. Still she did not stir. He focused his attention on her back. _Is she breathing? Is her back moving?_ He lost track of time as he focused on her, determined to see what he needed to see. _In… out… in… out…_ breathing. _Please breathe._ And she did, slow, stuttered, and faint.

Something in his mind screamed at him, _She’s dying!_ Without a second thought, Draco pointed his wand at Luna. _Spiritum!_

 _Breathe life,_ he inwardly cried, beseeching the spell to work. _Breathe life, breathe life, breathe life._

Draco had practiced the spell for hours —that spell and more, every spell he could fathom he might need for this suicide mission. Draco was nothing if not meticulous and thorough, especially when the stakes were high.

_Spiritum_  
_Spiritum_  
_Spiritum_

“Luna … Luna, you’re safe,” he whispered, hesitating to touch her.

 _Should he touch her? Her shoulder?_ That seemed right. Draco cautiously reached his hand out and ever-so-slightly allowed his fingers to rest upon her shoulder. He worried he should pull back. It felt invasive somehow. But his touch remained as he found himself anxious to feel her warmth, the rise and fall of her breathing, to hear the sound of air passing through her nose and mouth. Maybe she would speak, say his name, _—Draco..._ But she only whimpered, as though she was trying to call out, but could not.

“Luna, please wake.” He felt warm tears pour down his face. He thought of the story his mother read to him as a boy —a sleeping princess that could only wake by her true love’s kiss. Draco recalled Luna's soft beautiful smile of the past. He pictured her breathtaking eyes meeting his with a sort of sweet innocence that always made his chest hurt. “Luna,” he sobbed, feeling a depth of grief he was sure he could not bear.

It was then Luna stirred, uncurling like a newly wilted flower, turning to face Draco. He couldn’t tell if she was still asleep, but her battered appearance made Draco gasp and his hand flew to his gaping mouth. His emotions boarded a nightmarish rollercoaster as he took in her damaged state. There was an intense urge to wrap her assaulted body up in his arms, to hold her close and whisper assurances and heal her with his sorrowful tears.

Luna frowned deeply and her lips began to tremble. Steadily her eyes opened, fluttering with fright. Bloodshot and bruised, the wide pools of slate blue gradually focused on Draco. There was a wash of relief in her eyes as she met his.

"An angel,” she gasped softly, her airy voice scratched by torment. The sound of it made Draco sob aloud. The tears flowed freely then, both of them weeping. “Save me,” she implored weakly, reaching out to grip his arm. Her eyes, wet with tears and drowning in terror, pierced him with desperation. Her fingers dug into his wrist. Then her focus began to fade. “Mum," she cried, the life in her sad blue eyes gradually dulling. She released his arm. "I want to see Mummy again.”

Draco's chest panged with unbearable heartache. He could not stop himself from gathering her in an embrace, needing to feel her breath, needing to catch her tears. Her head lay on his shoulder as she wept softly, and Draco felt her fingers curl around his shirt. _I can never let her go,_ he thought, a sort of panic accompanying the realization. He tried to contain his sobs, failing, his sorrow increasing tenfold as her fingers slowly uncurled and she slipped back into oblivion, going listless in his arms.

_How am I to save you, Luna?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, fic-mates! Thank you so much for reading! And if you were awaiting this chapter, thank you so much for hanging in there with me! Life, as I dreaded, held me back, but I am determined that _henceforth!_ my creative writing, (this story in particular), will take priority. It is a love affair within me and I shall not neglect it!
> 
> ...pardon my sentimental language. I've been reading a lot of Dickens as of late.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Luna find solace in a shared embrace, and their souls align.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two souls have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.”  
> ~ Victor Hugo, Les Misérables

Draco’s hand shook as he touched the vial of healing potion to Luna’s battered lips. His other hand, meshed in her bloody hair, tenderly cradled the back of her head, lifting her to drink.

_How could he be so frightened and so brave in the same moment?_

Luna’s mouth was slack and slightly parted. She felt weighted in the fold of his arm, like the very nearly dead or one held captive in a very deep sleep. Though she breathed, she did not wake. Not at the touch of the vial nor the healing liquid slipping past her lips.

“Luna,” he whispered, setting the vile aside to catch a bit of potion slipping from the corner of her mouth. “Luna, wake-up and drink this.” She did not stir.

He held the vile again and tilted it, whispering…

_Luna, please wake-up… Luna, you’re safe… please… It’s me, Draco… I need you to wake-up..._

Draco did not allow himself to register the bruises, the swelling, the cuts and scratches, her pale skin marred by teeth and claws, her face and body abused by dark cruelty, her golden hair tangled and matted with blood. His memory captured it all the same —a mental photograph that would torment him later, something he could never unsee.

“Please wake-up.”

_She is still so beautiful._

He set the potion down and cautiously reached to touch her face, tracing her brow to draw away strands of hair. A soft delicate whimper slipped from Luna’s lips as she pressed them tight and furrowed her brow, frowning deeply. Draco thought his heart would burst with relief. Then she released a pained whine as her suffering pulled her back into consciousness. All at once, she drew a sharp gasp of fear and became all arms and hands, flailing wildly to defend herself and desperate to get away. She screamed and it was then Draco caught her and wrapped her up in his arms, pulling her head to his shoulder, pressing her face to the crook of his neck where he could muffle her cries.

He shushed and rocked, “It’s okay, Luna. It’s okay. It’s me, Draco. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe...” And her strangled cries turned into gasps and then sobs as she steadily recognized his voice, her terror melting into weak relief. She clung to him, as though he kept her from falling off the earth. She embraced his neck so tight, nearly crawling into his lap, trying to get away from a threat that no longer loomed.

“Draco,” she trembled his name, as though trying to convince herself, shaking in his arms. "Draco, Draco, Draco…" his name carried with her gasping breaths.

“Yes,” he replied eagerly. “Yes, yes, Luna, sit-up.”

As she did nothing but cling to him, he untangled himself from her and cradled her gently against his chest, reaching for the vial. Soon, her pain would be gone.

“Drink, love.”

She wept with shut eyes and trembling lips as he coaxed her to take the liquid into her mouth and he shushed her as she swallowed it, grimacing with pain. “Yes, Luna. That’s good, love.”

Not long after, her weight in his arms began to feel right. She was not a dying body, but the ethereal soul of a living breathing girl in his embrace. Draco could not name all the feelings passing over him. Relief took precedence.

Time went unnoticed as he held her. He could not bear to place her back on the cold floor, finding her an extreme comfort in his lap. With her head cradled upon his shoulder, her breaths warm and growing even upon his chest, he found her hand clutched tight around the fabric of his shirt and coaxed her grip to soften. He laced their fingers, softly stroking his thumb across the back of her hand.

She slept. Deeper and deeper every moment, her pain abating, her fear dissipating. _She is a darling,_ Draco thought with awe. And he wanted her to be his —not to own or claim, but to look after and be responsible for. He could not bear for her to suffer in the slightest and he vowed to keep her safe always. As long as she was breathing, Draco would breathe.

>>><<<

Draco worked diligently through the night, his neglected muscles awaking with an ache that was not unwelcome. Purpose filled his being with determination and a strength of spirit blossomed within him.

 _There are too few hours,_ he lamented as dawn approached. _And I cannot imagine leaving her._

_What if she is assaulted again? What if her injuries claim her life while he is not there to guard her breathing? What if... —oh! there are too many what-ifs._

Draco could not help but dread that everything would go awry, but he did not allow his fears to hinder him. Each time his eyes passed over the sleeping girl in the corner, his bravery and resolve were boosted. He willed his confidence to hearten, assuring himself that his plan was going to work. He had to trust in his abilities. The curse upon Dolohov would remain, the healing potion would continue to mend Luna's body and soothe her mind. The dungeon was blanketed with spells of protection. She would be safe until his return the following midnight.

Draco had taken great care to leave Luna secure and comfortable without him by her side. A bag with an extension charm held all the supplies he had needed. His wand and whispered words had done all that was needed to purify the space. In the end, it was no longer a sadistic dungeon, but a simple stone cellar —something not uncommon in many homes. The walls, once splattered with macabre, were now clean, smooth grey stone cool to the touch in an almost soothing way. The floors were cleansed of filth and rid of vermin. The small high windows that were blackened with thick dirt and dust, now permitted outside light, and Draco hoped the sun might bathe Luna as she slept.

She had a cot, blankets and a pillow. She had a store of food and water. She had a set of his mother's pajamas —pale pink vicuña to keep her warm at night. She had luxurious socks —which Draco had taken the privilege of already placing on her delicate feet. She had books to read, a deck of playing cards, and a half-used journal with a quill. She had a hairbrush and a handful of toiletries —items stolen from his mother’s vast expensive collection with comfortable disregard as his mother could afford to buy anything at any time. And finally, as well, feeling divinely clever for it, Draco had thought to use one of his family's charmed tents —a small unassuming white canvas that opened upon a tidy simple bathroom. It was all that Luna could need while held captive, though it did not seem at all worthy in comparison to freedom.

 _That would come,_ Draco vowed.

With sunrise hanging just below the horizon, Draco kneeled next to Luna to look over her one last time. Her clothes were clean and mended, though not without evidential stains and frayed threads. Her hair, though knotted and chaotic, was free of blood. Draco reached to gingerly brush strands from her face.

Her pale complexion, once ashen and gray, was beginning to welcome color. The cuts were sutured, the scrapes soothed with balm. A deep purple bruise painted her left cheek and eye, but the swelling had gone down. She breathed, steady and slow, her mouth parted in comfortable sleep. Her eyes were still, peaceful. Never had such a mournful sight brought Draco so much relief.

>>><<<

_You’re safe._

_I’ll be back after midnight._

_~D._

>>><<<

Draco collapsed onto his bed, feeling that it was probably a mistake as there was much he wanted to do before returning to Luna. But his exhausted body ignored his anxious mind and as he drifted off, reality began to seem wholly unreal. _Was Luna really there? Was any of this real?_

It seemed only a brief moment before his eyes shot open, panicked and almost confused by his state of being. Urgency grounded him. Luna was there. It was the following night. And Draco needed to get back to her.

He showered, the water almost painfully hot, —a welcome discomfort. It warmed his body to life, awaking his senses and rousing his sleep-addled mind. Steam opened his lungs, drawing precious oxygen into his body. He was alive. He had purpose.

The heat rushing over his head and spilling down his body felt amazing, coaxing him to comfort, and it would have been divine had the memory of Luna’s eyes not cinched his heart. He would never forget their color: slate blue, the color of the North Sea on a cloudy day. He longed to see them sparkle like they once did in the corridors of Hogwarts.

>>>>>>

_“Lovegood?”_

_The fourth-year Ravenclaw with the long blonde hair was leaning upon a large window in the dark dead-silent hallway of an obscure wing in the castle. She was out well beyond curfew, but as a prefect, Draco was not unfamiliar with her sleepwalking affliction._

_“Hello, Draco.” Her voice was sweet and quiet. She did not turn around, her forehead resting upon the window, her hands splayed over the glass. She stood on her tiptoes with the ease of a practiced ballerina, and her feet were bare,_ —bare feet! —in the middle of a bitterly cold winter! _Draco frowned and approached her, somewhat cautiously, —she was a weird girl._

_“The prædictas are dancing on the snow tonight.”_

_Draco stood next to her and followed her line of vision to the wide blanket of thick snow covering the smooth hill that overlooked the Black Lake. Her eyes were wide with delight, fixed upon the white expanse sparkling in the moonlight._

_“Luna, where are your shoes?” he said, disregarding her typical silliness with a tone that was not unlike a displeased parent._

_“The nargles have them,” she answered simply._

_Draco huffed and rolled his eyes._

_“Luna, it must be below freezing in this hallway.”_

_She smiled then, softly, and turned to him, her eyes happy._

_“Isn’t it invigorating?”_

—‘Invigorating’.

_He sighed._

_“You really shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe.”_

_“Yes, but you’re here,” she pointed out. “So, I am safe.”_

_He gave up, feeling much too tired to continue this line of conversation. Her bright gaze left him, returning to the snow._

She’s so pretty.

_“What are we looking at, then?” he relented._

_“The prædictas.”_

_“Prædictas?”_

_She nodded. “Dancing upon the snow just there,” she pointed to the hill._

_The silvery moonlight cast sparkles across the white snow, twinkling in the midnight with such beauty, it should cause the stars to envy. It was breathtaking, he could not deny. And the sight seemed brighter and more alive than reality._

_“Prædictas,” he whispered to himself, trying to capture her naivety._

_“They prefer the half-moon,” she stated. “It carries peace. There is neither the danger of the full moon nor the evil of the new moon. It is safe.”_

_“What are they?”_

_Draco had no care for magical creatures as they did not care for him. Luna loved them, —how he’d known this, he wasn’t sure._

_“Snow sprites,” she answered._

_Draco nodded as though,_ Oh! Of course, snow sprites.

_There was a long moment of silence carrying only their breaths, puffing fog upon the glass. Matching stances, leaning against the window, they breathed in sync, and a comfortable sleepiness settled over Draco._

_“Snow sprites,” he breathed, the words pulled from him without solicitation._

_He really liked Luna Lovegood._

>>>>>>

Draco smiled to himself in the brilliant heat of the shower, welcoming the memory of their unexpected rendezvous in a dark corner of Hogwarts castle. Less than a week later he’d had a new pair of high-end shoes delivered to her after spotting her in the corridors between classes wearing a pathetic mismatched pair —one black ballet flat and one bright red sneaker. He’d endowed the new shoes with a protection charm, safe from theft and, remarkably _—owing to Draco’s proficient knack for charms—_ the spell held a subtle guidance that would keep her in lasting safety. He had only wished she’d wear them at night and he even briefly considered buying her a pair of slippers.

He had no explanation as to why he felt so protective of the darling Ravenclaw, but he never ignored the desire. Not once. Not ever.

Draco did not dare return to the dungeon before midnight. The manor was far too alive with waking evil. He remained in his room, worrying over Luna and worried about Dolohov. _Had the curse worked?_ To battle his anxiety while he waited, he planned. _How was he to free Luna from the dungeon? How was he to get her to safety? Where would he take her? And then … then what?_

There was no one to whom he could pose his questions, so he sought answers in books. He read vigorously, scribbling notes in margins, underlining passages, marking pages, —book after book after book. A plan began to take shape in his mind.

>>><<<

Draco kicked Rowle’s foot sharply, trying to rouse the poisoned Death Eater. He was happily comatose. Draco wondered how many times his little trick would work on the drooling imbecile. For the time, it was safe. He was safe to be with Luna until sunlight seeped into the night sky and Rowle returned to consciousness. _If_ everything went according to plan, they were safe. 

_We'll be safe,_ he assured himself. 

The heavy trepidation within Draco nearly overwhelmed the urgent need to lay eyes upon Luna again. He rushed down the winding stone steps and paused at the gate, holding his breath to listen carefully. The silence beyond was heavy and foreboding. His heart began to pound and race.

“Luna?” he whispered cautiously, scarcely audible to even himself. Then, with a bit more gumption, “Luna? Luna, it’s me … Draco.” He waited. There was a faint shuffle. “Luna,” he hissed louder, feeling panic settle over him—

“Draco?”

Her voice was like a church bell. He fumbled to unlock the gate, his hands not working fast enough for his liking and he cursed under his breath. _Luna, Luna, Luna…_ his mind chanted her name, pushing him to her with fierce desperation.

It seemed only an instant and she was in his arms, clinging to his neck breathlessly. The sensation was overwhelming —her heart racing against his own, her gasps warm upon his neck. Whimpers of relief and gratitude spilled from her, ushering in tears.

“Yes,” Draco whispered into her hair, —an answer to a question she had not spoken aloud. “I’m here, Luna … You’re safe.”

>>><<<

_Lay with me,_ Luna had said. And Draco had not thought to deny her anything. So, her head was cradled in his arm, her body pressed to his side with the ease of longtime lovers. He had never been so intimately close with someone before and he suspected Luna had not either. She clung to him, her hand wrenching in the fabric of his shirt, holding her to him as though to keep him from disappearing. They said nothing, just shivering in the dark beneath the blanket Draco had surrounded them with. A single candle painted them in soft flickering amber, and they stared out the small window at the night sky, breathing in sync.

The sky was black, thick clouds hiding the infinite stars, a new moon selfishly hoarding its light. Draco longed to see the moon. He wished for the stars, thinking of the stories he could regale upon Luna to take her away from this dark reality.

“Draco?” she said after an unknown period of silence. It startled Draco slightly, stealing his breath, and then she lifted her head to meet his eyes, pausing him altogether.

“Yes,” he breathed in response, his voice shaking.

“Why am I here?”

The healing potion he had brewed —it dulled her memory. Draco had wanted to cleanse the memories of every cruel fate that had fallen upon her, for all time. He didn’t want her to remember such tragic horror. But he could not do such a thing. It was playing the part of a creator. It was an alteration in reality he was not permitted to make. His heart cried nonetheless.

She would remember eventually, —everything. He could not save her from it, yet something begged him to hold on to the horrifying truth for as long as possible. His mind searched for a truthful answer that would absolve her question without inviting fear and grief.

Luna's blue eyes were so wide, searching Draco for answers. As difficult as her question was, he could not bring himself to look away. Her eyes captured him, and he knew then he would love her forever.

“Draco?”

It could not be withheld. Luna deserved only sincere virtuous honesty.

And so, Draco’s eyes shed silent tears as he proceeded to impart the angel in his arms with their dark story. His words were wounding. The truth was despicable. And Luna’s steady tears spilling upon his chest were ruin upon his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you lovely fic-mates for reading my story. It is a joy to give these two a love story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco looks after Luna in the dungeon for months, awaiting an opportunity to free her. Their ceaseless nights together become a beautiful nocturnal world all their own. And Draco opens up his heart and is rewarded with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Yours is the light by which my spirit's born.  
> You are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.”  
> ~ E.E. Cummings

Months slipped by Draco and Luna in an ambient blur of careful survival. They remained invisible by remaining inconsequential. Draco spent his nights with Luna in the dungeon and carried on as normal during the days, (i.e. retreating to his bedroom and refusing all company). Luna was confined to the dungeon, but she was waited upon by loyal house-elves, and Draco ensured she wanted for nothing.

By some fortunate fate, Draco’s Anemperio curse upon Dolohov held steady —protecting Luna through the day while Draco could not be with her. As for the nights, incapacitating the drunk, Rowle, had proved to be easier than luring a baby with candy. Furthermore, the spells of protection Draco shrouded over the dungeon, as well as the charms he embraced Luna with —all of these precautions and assurances kept Draco moving forward confidently and held the beasts of doubt and despair at bay.

Draco constructed a number of plans for saving Luna, using the vast Malfoy library and his limited life experience as his only resources. He often wished for someone to consult —a friend, a mentor; someone that could advise him and provide the missing elements he needed to perfect his plans.

Partly due to his nature as a perfectionist and partly because of his deep-seated fear that if something _could_ go wrong, it _would_ go wrong, he determined there could be no room for error. The stakes were life and death _—Luna’s_ life and death— relying upon a set of schemes and circumstances falling into exact place.

Draco liked to think he was clever —smarter than most. But the last year of his life had been painfully humbling. He could no longer trick himself into believing that he was superior, that he lacked flaws. With the Occlumency training, the Dark Mark, and the ever-growing evil he was party to, insecurities crept around him like a suffocating vine, entrapping him, keeping him from action. Draco couldn’t recall ever fighting it. He just let it happen, relenting his soul and relinquishing any value he had for his own life. This had made it easy for everyone to use him.

For all intents and purposes, Draco was dead when Luna was brought to Malfoy Manor in December. But upon her arrival, there was a spark within him. It kindled his soul back to life and endowed him with purpose. It had long been his self-prescribed duty to protect the blonde Ravenclaw. He would not abandon her now in her greatest time of need.

>>><<<

“Draco?”

Luna had a habit of breaking an empty silence with the sonant of his name in the form of a question. This recurring lark pulled Draco from distant reveries like a sparrow’s song pulling one from sleep. His eyes would immediately find hers, a pull of concern owning his brow, only to meet her calm expression, eyes painted in curiosity and sometimes dreaminess.

This time she was serious, capturing his eyes with a thoughtful frown as though trying to judge his mood. Then she sighed, as though resigned to some unknown fate. She adjusted her position on the cot to properly face him and leaned in. “I’ve long wondered something,” she began, stopping to meet his eyes as though asking for his permission to continue.

Draco nodded.

Luna asked Draco a lot of questions —not successively, but sporadic, one at a time, clear and concise, interrupting any and all activities. Draco did his best to satisfy her with honest answers or a humble _I don’t know._ Then she would accept his response, often furrowing her brow and tilting her head to the side with a faraway look —as though this aided in her thought process. She rarely responded in turn, only absorbing Draco’s answers with serious solitary consideration. Then, most often, she would drift back into her own reveries, sometimes nodding, sometimes shrugging —seemingly for her own sake.

There was a time when the call of his name breaking the silence in the cold dark dungeon sent him into distress. Now, after months of ceaseless nights together, Luna’s voice woke his heart and brightened his spirit. He wished to hear Luna say his name a million times over and to always have an excuse to meet her slate-blue eyes.

Draco had Luna’s eyes memorized.

They were the colour of The North Sea on a cloudy day —a colour stained in his mind for eternity. After dozens of holidays at his family’s rural cottage in Aberdeen —their seaside home that sat atop a smooth hill, near a deathly cliff, overlooking an endless expanse of waves —waves that were slate blue. Draco had drowned in that colour often. It was a fantasy; an imagined death in the sea that always brought him relief.

“Draco?” Luna's voice pulled him back to the present. "Do you know what your Patronus is?"

It took a beat for him to register the question.

 _Patronus._ The word had not crossed his mind in a long while —perhaps not since Fifth Year, just before the Occlumency training. It immediately conjured within him a physical tension, a painful anger that rested on jealousy, insecurity, and fear. A wound that refused to scar.

A familiar insidious voice echoed in his mind: _What if you have no soul?_ That voice had frightened Draco since he was a very young boy.

Draco looked at Luna reluctantly and she was looking back at him with an unnameable intensity. He noted she looked pretty even when she frowned. He wanted to gaze at her beauty. And he knew he wanted to avoid this subject entirely. But she looked like she might cry if he denied her this.

 _This cannot become a thing,_ Draco thought, almost ordering himself —dredging up ugly memories and sins for Luna to judge him by. _He was not the same person anymore!_ She had made him something new. It was a rebirth. And though they resided in dire circumstances, with the threat of pain and death forever looming, Draco had never felt more alive, more full of purpose. His past was horrid, and he had no wish to even think of it, much less speak about it. So, he forced himself to seem indifferent and shrugged, giving Luna the simple reply of, “Nope.” His nonchalance would have fooled anyone else.

 _Don’t fucking cry,_ he silently begged her, avoiding her worried face. Maybe his blasé attitude would appease her. _Maybe..._

Not likely.

Luna looked down, clearly disappointed, maybe even hurt. They both knew their relationship had developed well past white lies and secrets.

Neither moved, nor spoke. Draco loathed himself. His chest ached. The only sound in his ears was the heavy pounding of his heart. But his mind was screaming at him. All the voices were screaming at him.

The world around him began to spin wildly and he closed his eyes tight to settle it. _Shite, you’re weak!_ His hands started to worry around in his lap and, hardly noticeable, he began to rock himself.

He felt Luna’s hands slip around his and squeeze to steady the trembling. With his head down in shame, he opened his eyes to see her delicate pink fingers embracing his pale hands. Her fingers curled around his with meaning, then she prompted his palms against her own and linked their fingers. She looked at him intensely, drawing his eyes to hers. Her eyes were beautiful, but also strong, determined, and endlessly reassuring.

 _Oh!_ What a coward he would be, if he did not share this one thing —this one true, embarrassing, confusing, humbling, scary thing.

_A Patronus —my Patronus..._

“I … I was never really able to conjure a proper memory to —you know, make the spell work.” He avoided Luna’s eyes, focusing instead on their hands. “Suppose after I realized I’d never master it, I just stopped trying. Focused my attention on, you know, other things.” He let Luna process this for a moment. “Developing my Patronus was not exactly on the top of my list, Luna.”

Draco sighed and cleared his throat awkwardly, correcting his posture and reclaiming his hands to stretch them high above his head. The stretch was much needed, waking his tense muscles and sending fresh blood to his addled mind.

Luna watched him, tilting her head pensively. He felt exposed because he could see the wheels in her mind turning. And there was something about Luna that led Draco to believe that she could see much more than others. She could see the unseeable. She could see thoughts.

 _Damn,_ he wanted Luna to love him! He wanted her to know everything about him —even the unforgivable. He wanted Luna to see it all and he wanted her to love him despite.

After an eternity of silence, “Draco?”

And automatically, “Yes, love?” The pet name had become common between the pair —spontaneous and bashfully unexpected for both. It always ran a shiver up Draco’s spine —to slip-up and call Luna his ‘love’ —to hear _her_ say it! The air around them warmed.

Hands shaking, Draco took hold of hers and linked them again. He watched his thumbs brush across her smooth skin. Her delicate fingers tightened in response. His eyes travelled up her arm, skin the colour of ivory with a fine layer of downy hair, paler even than her skin. She was no longer marred with bruises. He looked up at her neck, noting it’s flawlessness, ill at the remembrance of the unfathomable markings of abuse. He could not think of what happened to her—

“Draco?” she said, a bell recapturing his attention.

He looked up at her, his eyes threatening tears. Then Luna smiled at him, soft and small and true. Luna’s smiles were so sincere, she offered only her truest intentions by them. A smile from Luna was a kiss from an angel. Her smiles did not lie.

Draco was staring at her lips —the most perfect shade of pink. Luna’s pale complexion blushed rose, and she looked away.

“Can I ask you something … perhaps very personal?” she looked back at him and read his eyes’ response.

Draco furrowed his brow at her and swallowed, feeling his jaw constrict. ‘Personal’ to him meant _personal._ There were things Draco would take to his grave. However, his inclination to forever be an island unto himself seemed to no longer apply when it came to Luna.

“Go on, then,” he said, offering her a smile meant to be casual that was surely anything but.

Luna frowned, silent for a brief moment, then went out with it. “Do you have a favourite memory?”

Every ounce of loveliness drained from him. He knew the answer before she’d finished the question and it made him ill, and once again, exposed.

Draco froze, looking down. He didn’t answer. He had no intention of answering. It wounded him to deny Luna anything. But this hurt too much.

Draco had lost all the memories that made him weak. Occlumency stole them, fading their sentimentalism like draining the colour from a beautiful painting. He did not have a favourite memory.

All at once, Luna’s arms were around his neck, forcing him into an embrace he immediately returned. Nothing felt more amazing than wrapping Luna in a tight embrace, pulling her head to his shoulder, desperate to feel her breath on his neck —demanding it with an overpowering strength. She climbed into his lap, embracing him tighter. Her chest flush with his, their hearts racing in sync, their breaths quickening in tandem...

“Lay with me, Draco,” she breathed —something she’d asked of him dozens of times, usually as the dawn neared. But the words were rushed this time, desperate.

They settled in their usual positions on the cot: Draco on his back, head resting on his arm, Luna’s head cradled in the nook of his shoulder, her delicate form curled around his side; her hand splayed over his heart, his fingers combing through her hair. This was how they slept in the few hours just before sunrise and Draco’s daily departure.

Like numerous times before, in long silence, they gazed through the high window in the dungeon at the prussian blue sky, blanketed with spectacular silver stars, as well as faintly coloured planets demanding to be noticed and singled out. The moon, Draco knew from devoted study, was currently a waning crescent, but it was out of their view.

Luna hugged him tighter and turned her head to look up at him, resting her chin on his chest. Her wide eyes captured his. “Show me a constellation, Draco _—please.”_ And Draco's heart raced, because Luna never need say _please_ to him.

He felt his fingers comb through her hair as he studied their limited view of the sky above. “I see Aquila, The Eagle,” he said at last. He pointed out the five brightest stars of the constellation —Altair, Alshain, Tarazed, Okab, and Eta Aquilae— listing each with pleasant patience as Luna diligently searched out each spot he pointed to in the sky.

They took a quiet moment to study it. Luna seemed to hold her breath as she created the vision of a mighty eagle in her mind. _Aquila,_ she whispered, only to herself.

Draco lifted himself just enough to see her expression. _How could she find such awe in so little?_ He smiled and reached to trace a finger along her forehead, trailing a lock of her wavy hair out of her eyes.

In the candlelight, her eyes were the exact deep prussian blue of the darkest hour of the night sky.

“What is Aquila’s story?” Luna whispered. Her hand found his and she linked their fingers.

Draco thought, _I love you,_ and wanted to breathe it aloud and could not imagine recalling a random constellation myth in the moment, much less retell it with any sort of sense. But he could not deny her...

 _Aquila,_ Draco focused, determined not to disappoint his Luna. He searched his tangled consciousness and soon it came to him like a wave. He had the story of Aquila, The Eagle, embedded in his mind, each word intoned in his mother’s voice.

Draco sighed with relief and turned to place a kiss upon Luna’s head —a sort of prize for his own success— claimed without permission and knowing it would be welcome. He adjusted the blanket around them, settling in, pulling Luna as close as possible. He buried his nose in her hair and inhaled deeply, breathing her in. Then he cleared his throat to begin.

“Aquila was Zeus’ eagle,” Draco began. “He carried his thunderbolts, you see.” Luna nodded against his chest, as though she did, in fact, _see._ Draco smiled fondly and thread his fingers through her hair. "At some point,” Draco continued,” Zeus developed this obsession —like this maddening lust for this, this boy —shepherd, or something. Ganymede was his name. Zeus thought Ganymede was the most handsome mortal he’d ever seen. So he demanded to have him … to make him, you know, his lover.”

Luna released a bated breath, eyes glued to the sky as though the mythical scene were playing out right before her. Draco’s eyes lingered on Luna’s lashes —unreally long, (much like her hair in that way), and curling in a darling fashion that framed her eyes, elaborating their innocence. He wanted to give Luna the world.

He drew his eyes away and followed Luna’s gaze back to the window. “Anyway,” Draco sighed and went on, crestfallen that he had little more to add to the story Luna was so obviously enjoying. “The eagle, Aquila?” Luna lifted her head to meet his eyes and nodded, very seriously expectant. “Aquila, as it turns out, is the eagle that captured the mortal boy, Ganymede, and delivered him to Zeus.”

Luna drew in a quiet gasp and looked back at the sky. She gazed at it, making the constellation before her align with the story she’d just heard.

“I don’t like that story,” she stated after a quiet moment. She lifted herself and looked at Draco, slipping her hands behind his neck and resting her elbows upon his chest. She met his face with purpose.

“I’m sorry your majesty is not pleased,” Draco said in a perfected unaffected tone. He allowed his hands to caress her back in a soothing manner, meeting her gaze with equal seriousness, awaiting her next move.

“Zeus stole this boy?” Luna frowned at him, clearly wishing such a thing wasn’t so.

Draco nodded, empathizing with her naivety, while trying not to shrug and reveal his cynicism. The story of Aquila, The Eagle, and the mortal boy, Ganymede, was something he’d pondered long ago as a boy, when his mother shared the tale as they’d gazed through his enormous bedroom windows late at night. Resting in her arms, he’d listen to her tales of the stars that he very much enjoyed losing himself in, but when all was said and done, he was much too logical to think any of the bedtime stories were more than diverting myths.

“It didn’t actually happen, Luna,” Draco said, endeared by her seriousness. He placed his thumb over the crease between her brow and softly smoothed it, coaxing her face to relax. She melted into a smile and met his eyes. Hers seemed to light up.

Draco’s chest ached painfully as he thought, _I want to kiss you, Luna._ And without prompt, his eyes fell to her soft heart-shaped lips. Luna leaned close and the atmosphere electrified.

Their lips met unguarded, a whist press of deep connection before Draco slipped his hand around Luna’s neck and leaned up to deepen the kiss. His mouth cradled hers, guiding her through the ethereal encounter. Whimpering sounds slipped past her lips and into his mouth, causing him to sit up and properly fold her in his arms. Her wet lips were soft, her warm mouth was velvet, and Draco kissed her with devoted worship, slow and determined to relish every feeling coursing through his body, desperate to hold on to the kiss for eternity, to never again know what it felt like without Luna’s lips upon his own.

For the sake of oxygen, their lips parted but hovered near —breathing in the same air, exhaling together. Luna’s arms circled Draco’s neck. Draco pulled her body close with a firm hand against her back, then cradled her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. He let his fingers travel to her lips —mere centimetres from his own— and he caressed her mouth, memorizing it.

Luna drew in a sharp gasp and trembled in his arms —a sudden overwhelming wash of feelings. In response, she hugged him tighter and turned to bury her face deep in the corner of his neck. Shy or nervous or scared —Draco simply tightened his embrace to reassure her. She placed her ear near the pulse point on his neck, pressing until she found his heartbeat. She shivered when she did.

“Draco?” she whispered against his skin, her fingers curling around his shirt to keep him close.

All at once, the whole scene made him dizzy. It was surreal and out-of-control and, and … perhaps too much. He was holding an angel in his arms. _His angel._ Why was he suddenly so scared of dropping her?

“Yes,” he replied, his voice shakier than he’d have liked.

Luna lifted her head and met his eyes. Draco felt her find his hand with hers and link their fingers. She was mesmerizing, wide exploring eyes, golden hair a mess, strands covering her face. Draco reached with his free hand to brush the blonde waves smooth and free her face of curls. He took the liberty of touching her pink lips, lips he had kissed red. Luna fixed on him devotedly, like an awed worshiper might a god. It felt intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

“Draco,” Luna breathed like a prayer, holding his gaze with vivid wet eyes. “I wish to be your favourite memory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter finally made it. I have worked and overworked it and I am still not happy with it. But I believe in my story of Draco and Luna's love, so I will endeavour to move it forward, and hope my mind will allow it.
> 
> Thank you for reading, lovely Fic-Mates!
> 
> P.S. ~ I'm an American writing in a British setting with British characters. I've no doubt this shows in spellings and phrasings and who knows what else. Hopefully it's easy to overlook and is not distracting.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, fic-mates! I love writing this ship. There aren't enough Druna fics out there.  
> I'll have slow and steady updates due to my perfectionism and that thing we call life. Hang in there with me and I'll give the world a lovely Druna story that really should be canon.
> 
> I greatly appreciate all kudos, comments, critiques, and advice —particularly concerning my abominable habit of stretching my characters so far OOC that they become unrecognizable.
> 
> And thanks for reading! Love and peace to all!


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